


The Hollow Man

by sister_wolf



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Dead Robins, Gen, no happy endings here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-22
Updated: 2005-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_wolf/pseuds/sister_wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't even know that it existed until it showed up in Gotham one night, this-- this <em>thing</em> that's wearing Jason's body like a costume.  But not his body as it was when he died-- older, no scars, no marks at all.  How is that even <em>possible</em>?</p><p>(Or, the one where Red Hood meets the ghost of his fifteen-year-old self.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hollow Man

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://theodosia.livejournal.com/profile)[**theodosia**](http://theodosia.livejournal.com/) and [](http://petronelle.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://petronelle.livejournal.com/)**petronelle** for beta.

"What are you?" Jason finally asks.

"What do you think I am?" it replies calmly, continuing to adjust a remote-controlled machine gun. There are several of them in packing crates hidden around the warehouse, ready to turn some unsuspecting bastard into hamburger. Every time he's asked what it intends to do with the guns, it's just ignored him.

Jason frowns and scuffs a boot against the floor. Not that he can _touch_ the floor, or touch anything, really, unless he concentrates, but old habits are hard to break. "I dunno. A demon, maybe. I mean, you can see me."

The expressionless red helmet turns in his direction and Jason can only assume that Red Hood is looking at him. "Which makes you _what_ , exactly? If only demons can see you."

"I'm a ghost. Other people see me sometimes. Alfred--" He cuts himself off, too late.

The thing cocks its head and asks, "Who's Alfred? Is that _his_ name?"

"See, if you were _me_ , you'd _know_ who Alfred is. You don't know, so you're not me. You're just some _thing_ that's taken over my dead body."

It shrugs, not looking up from its work. "Severe traumatic brain injury."

"What?"

"Brain damage. The Joker, a crowbar, being beaten to death? Is that ringing any bells? You-- I lost memories, language, names. Had to learn how to talk again." It tests the remote-controlled machine gun, raising and lowering it from the crate.

"But what _are_ you? How'd you get my body? Where the fuck have you _been_ all these years?" Jason asks, feeling a little desperate. He didn't even know that it existed until it showed up in Gotham one night, this-- this _thing_ that's wearing Jason's body like a costume. But not his body as it was when he died-- older, no scars, no marks at all. How is that even _possible_?

"I'm you." The thing puts its tools down and stands up. It's taller than Jason ever got to be; probably almost as tall as Bruce. "In every way that matters, I'm you-- but better. I don't have a conscience. I can clean up this town in a way that Batman will never be able to, because he's handicapped by his rule against killing. I'm better than him. He's obsolete, and I'll prove it."

Jason grabs the thing by its coat lapels. He can _feel_ it, he can _touch_ it, which is so weird that he almost lets go, but this is too important to let himself get distracted. "I swear to _God_ , if you do anything to Batman, I'll--"

"You'll what? Haunt me?" There's a sudden beeping noise. The thing pulls out a little electronic device and checks the screen. "Looks like I caught another rat. Listen, Casper, this was fun, but I gotta go to work."

"Wait! What are you-- where are you-- dammit."

Ignoring Jason, the thing starts up a motorcycle and roars out of the warehouse. Left alone, Jason can already feel the pull of oblivion, trying to tug him into the dark whispering nothingness. His existence is a string of disjointed minutes and hours, when someone-- usually it's Alfred, sometimes it's Bruce, or Dick, or the new Robin-- pulls him out of the darkness for a little while, before he goes back under again.

He can feel the darkness creeping closer, and even though he fights it, it's pulling on him, tugging him under...

...

...he comes back to himself in a dimly-lit, bare corridor, the cement floor covered in a pool of blood. The _thing_ is crouched next to a decapitated body, stuffing a severed head into a large duffel bag. Jason catches a glimpse of the blank, staring eyes of at least two more heads in the bag before Red Hood zippers it closed.

"What the hell are you _doing_?" Jason seriously wants to puke, or scream, or hit the _thing_ over the head repeatedly until it _stays_ dead.

"Oh, you're back," the thing says, calmly wiping its bloody knife on the dead body's jacket. "I'm sending a message."

"What, that you're a fucking psychopath?"

"That the Red Hood is a force to be reckoned with." The thing stands up and slides the knife back into its sheath. "That they can peddle their drugs _only_ with my permission and under my rules."

"So this is about _drugs_? You murdered--"

"Like you never killed anyone?" The thing-- Red Hood-- touches something on its helmet and the two halves separate with a hiss. Jason backs away, unable to stop staring. Even under the full-face helmet, Red Hood wears a mask: a domino mask, the Robin mask in red. Red Hood's face looks like an older version of Jason, like maybe he would have looked in a couple of years if he hadn't fucking _died_ when he was fifteen. "I remember standing on a balcony and watching a man beg me to grab his hand and help him back up. You remember that? Telling him he got what he deserved and then watching him fall?"

Garzonas. God, he-- he can _see_ Garzonas' face, he can remember what it felt like to let him fall. "That was different," Jason protests weakly, wrapping his arms around himself.

"Really? Cause from where I'm standing, I can't really see the difference."

"Garzonas killed that girl." The same argument he'd had with Bruce-- how many years ago? He isn't sure.

"She hung herself."

"It was his fault! He drove her to it. He murdered her."

"And these guys aren't murderers? The drugs they sell kill people. Kill kids." Red Hood shakes his head, snorting derisively. "Why the fuck am I wasting my time arguing with a ghost? I've got plans to execute, drug dealers to kill, the Batman to fuck with... Later, Casper," he says, sliding his helmet back on and sealing it with a click. Slinging the duffel bag of severed heads over one shoulder, Red Hood walks away.

"Oh, god, Bruce," Jason whispers, closing his eyes. "Bruce, you're gonna think it's me, you're gonna hate me..."

...

...he opens his eyes and he's standing on a rooftop next to Batman. He's still not used to the fact that Batman never notices that he's there. Batman notices _everything_.

He was never good enough, when he was alive, to sneak up on Bruce. Now he can, but it's long ago lost its novelty value. Bruce doesn't even notice the little things that Jason moves around sometimes to try to get his attention. He can scream and cry and rage for hours without seeing a single hint that Bruce is aware of his presence. It's the absolute worst thing about being dead.

There's a flicker of movement and Nightwing lands on the rooftop. Batman doesn't shift a muscle, just continues staring down at the city. Jason wonders when the hell Bruce got so cold. He was never affectionate with Jason, not really, but they'd roughhouse and play football in the house sometimes (which pissed off Alfred to no end), and occasionally Jason could even get him to laugh at his terrible jokes.

Dick is talking to Bruce, now, trying to get some kind of a reaction out of him, and it's like Dick is running repeatedly at a brick wall, and every time he falls over he just gets back up again. He never fucking gives up, no matter what. He's everything that Jason wanted to be when he grew up.

Jason knows this won't work, but he can't stop himself from trying. "Bruce," he says, getting right up in Bruce's face. There isn't even a flicker; Bruce is staring right over the top of Jason's head. Jason sighs and wishes for Red Hood's six extra inches of height. "Bruce!" he yells, jumping up and down. No reaction-- in fact, Bruce jumps right through him, down to a lower level of the roof.

"It's not me," Jason says quietly, watching Batman and Nightwing shoot their grapples and swing away into the night. "Red Hood isn't me..."

...

...Red Hood is standing at the edge of another rooftop, looking down at a docked ship. He doesn't seem to have noticed Jason yet. Jason takes the opportunity to stare. It's so weird, seeing his own body at whatever age Red Hood is-- nineteen? twenty? He's tall, well-built, muscular but graceful. Also, though Jason feels a little weird thinking this about his own mysteriously re-animated body, pretty damn good looking.

Jason sighs. He knows there's no fucking point to it, not after however many years, but he's still really, really pissed off that he died before he got to do anything really fun. Like, for example, have sex. He wonders if Red Hood has had sex (in his body), and then tries not to think about that anymore. Too creepy.

There's a burst of automatic gunfire from the direction of the ship. Jason jumps, startled, and wonders how he can still feel a burst of adrenalin when he doesn't even have any... adrenalin glands, or whatever.

"I was starting to think you'd miss the show," Red Hood says, glancing at him briefly.

Jason gapes at him. "You knew I was there?"

"I can feel you," Red Hood says, shrugging. "It's actually a little irritating. Oh, here we go." Jason follows the direction he's pointing and sees Batman and Nightwing fighting off armed guards on the deck of the ship.

"Oh, crap." Jason squints, wishing he could see the fight better...

...

...suddenly he's there, standing next to a guard who's about to shoot Nightwing in the back. No time to think about it, Jason just concentrates as much as he can and pushes at the muzzle of the gun, and the guard misses.

"Wow. I didn't know I could do that. Hey, Batman, did you see what I-- never mind," Jason finishes, miserably aware that Batman can't hear him and will never know that Jason saved Nightwing's life. He just-- god, he just wishes he could make Bruce proud of him.

Of course, once Batman finds out who Red Hood is, he'll probably hate Jason. Probably take down the Case, burn his costume, rip up the photo that he keeps in his bedside table. Jason has always felt oddly proud of that-- sure, Bruce's parents get the huge painting over the mantle, but it's Jason's photo that Bruce takes out and looks at sometimes, when he can't sleep.

Feeling melancholy, Jason stands and watches the rest of the fight with the guards. Batman and Nightwing fight together like they both know what the other is about to do. Like it's some kind of intricate dance. When most of the guards are down, Batman leaves the last few for Nightwing, watching him take them out with a little smile on his face. Jason used to be able to make him smile like that, he's almost sure of it.

Nightwing opens up a crate, which turns out to be full of old villains' weapons-- Penguin's umbrellas, Mr. Freeze's guns-- and two of Joker's smiley-faced bombs. Jason shudders and backs away. He doesn't want to think about the Joker.

Nightwing is opening up another crate, saying something about trophies for the Cave. There's a weird high whine when he opens it up, and Jason can see his face turn white as he sees the bomb inside.

Batman yells something and he and Nightwing take off running. Jason stares at the bomb. He doesn't know how to turn it off. It's going to kill Bruce.

He doesn't know if this will work-- he's never tried anything like this before-- but it's the only thing he can think of to do. Jason puts his hands over the bomb and concentrates on pushing stuff away from Bruce. He has about half a second to feel like some kind of crazy idiot and then the bomb blows...

...

...it hurts to 'wake up' this time. He feels thin and tattered, like the bomb tore away pieces. He's somewhere dark and quiet, except for wings fluttering in the distance. It feels like he's near the Cave.

There are voices, so quiet that he almost can't make them out. He can hear Dick's warm tenor, he thinks, and Alfred's cultured tones. Jason strains for any sign of Bruce, and then he's drifting through the darkness, toward the voices and the faint glow.

It seems to take a really long time. The voices fade in and out-- or maybe it's Jason who's fading. He's scared that by the time he gets there everyone will be gone...

...

...Bruce is staring at him. There's a weird shiny tube around him, which confuses Jason for a second until he realizes that he must have materialized inside the Case.

It's where he came through the very first time, after Joker killed him. He guesses that something about the Case keeps him from dying all the way, going to heaven or hell or whatever. He kind of wishes he could ask someone, but no one's ever been able to see him but Alfred, unless they're on the verge of dying themselves. Alfred, and now Red Hood.

Bruce has the cowl pushed back and he seems to be watching his own reflection in the Case. He's older than Jason remembers him, but the wrinkles next to his eyes aren't nearly as disturbing as the deep frown lines that bracket his mouth. A muscle twitches in his jaw and he lifts his hand to rub at it. Bruce looks tired and sad, and Jason wonders what he's thinking about.

"Who do you think he is?" Dick asks, from somewhere nearby. Bruce keeps staring at the Case. Jason waves at him experimentally, but Bruce doesn't react. Bruce still can't see him.

"What are you-- oh." Dick must have been in the shower. He stands next to Bruce, towel slung around his shoulders, wearing nothing but sweatpants and an impressive collection of bruises. "You don't think it's--"

"No." Bruce swivels his chair around and starts typing at the console.

"Could be Clayface again," Dick suggests, leaning against the console. Bruce grunts noncommittally. "I mean, there's no way that it could really be... him. Is there?"

Bruce stops typing, sitting motionlessly and staring at his own hands. "I buried him," he says, not looking up.

"I know you did, there's no way it could be--"

"I buried him," Bruce repeats slowly, like he didn't even hear Dick say anything. "He was dead when I found him. I couldn't tell-- I couldn't tell what had actually killed him. He had internal injuries, a punctured lung, severe bruising about the upper body and head." Bruce sounds like he's reading a case report. "Compound fractures in his right arm-- defensive injuries, he'd been trying to shield his head. His jaw had been shattered. Multiple depressed skull fractures. It may have been the head injuries that killed him. It might have been the explosion. He could have gone into shock, or drowned in his own blood. I couldn't tell. He was dead when I found him."

Dick doesn't say anything, looking blindly away, across the Cave into the darkness.

Jason didn't know-- he never wanted to know this. He never wanted to remember it-- the fear, the pain, the sound of Joker's laughter. He can't deal with this. He doesn't want to be here...

...

...suddenly he's somewhere else. Buildings covered in the faded remains of brightly-colored paint loom out of the darkness. It seems to be an abandoned amusement park. Red Hood stands in front of a crumbling funhouse, head tipped to the side slightly as if he's listening to something. He's holding something in his left hand. Jason knows, somehow, that he doesn't want to look at it.

"I thought the explosion destroyed you. Which actually would be pretty ironic, considering." Red Hood sounds distracted, his voice low and indistinct. He's tapping the thing in his left hand against the side of his leg.

"You son of a bitch." For some reason, maybe the air of stillness around the abandoned buildings, maybe something else, Jason can't bring himself to shout and scream the way that he wants to. "You tried to kill Batman."

"And Nightwing, don't forget that. I wonder where the other one is."

"Robin?" Jason asks, just to see Red Hood flinch.

"Yes. Robin," Red Hood says slowly. "I wasn't trying to kill them, anyway. If I'd meant to kill them, they'd be dead."

"You can't beat Batman. He'll catch you--"

"And then he'll what? Put me in jail? _Kill_ me? Do you think he could do that to me-- to you? He can't even bring himself to _hit_ me too hard." Red Hood shakes his head. "We can argue about that later. I'm glad you could make it, by the way. I really hoped you wouldn't miss this."

"Miss what?" He has a crawling suspicion that he already knows. Red Hood doesn't answer, just starts walking towards the funhouse.

He doesn't want to go inside, doesn't want to know what's in there. But he can't stop himself from following.

Sitting on the bare concrete floor, back propped against a wall covered in a chipped and peeling mural, the Joker looks strangely small. Tired and decrepit, nothing like the monster that looms in Jason's memory. His face is unshaven and his once-dapper clothes are threadbare and dirty. The Joker's voice is raspy and listless as he threatens to kill whoever is there, but the sound of it still turns Jason's non-existent stomach. If he could hyperventilate, he'd be doing it now.

Red Hood lifts his left hand, and Jason can finally see what he's holding. A crowbar. Just like the one that--

_...he tries to shield his face, tries to protect himself, but his arm is broken and he can't-- he can't feel anything for a moment, and then there's pain, pain from his arm, his jaw, oh god he thinks his jaw might be broken too-- there's blood in his mouth and he can't catch his breath, every time he breathes it just hurts so much-- and the last thing he sees is the Joker standing over him, laughing, raising the crowbar again..._

There's blood on the wall, blood on the Red Hood's jacket, blood all over his gloves, all over the crowbar. Red Hood beats Joker methodically, silently, like he's counting the blows in his head. Jason can hear it every time he connects-- the heavy meaty thwack of the crowbar, the echo of crazy laughter on the wind. The Joker isn't laughing now.

Red Hood stops, finally. Joker hasn't been moving for a while. He lies there on the floor, broken and bleeding, and Jason can't make himself feel pity, or remorse, or even anger.

The helmet makes a small hissing noise as the two halves separate. Red Hood stares at Joker for a moment. He looks sort of satisfied, and sort of angry at the same time. "So. How does it feel?"

Jason isn't sure which one of them he's asking. He figures it doesn't matter all that much. "I don't know," he says, watching the pool of blood under the Joker's head slowly spread across the floor.

"Yeah. Neither do I."

***

The pre-dawn breeze blows sparks from the burning rubble of the funhouse. Red Hood watches it burn. He hasn't put his helmet back on, hasn't said a word since throwing a lit match onto the Joker's gasoline-soaked body. Though Red Hood's eyes are still hidden by the red domino mask, Jason can see the tension in his face. His mouth is a thin line, lips pressed tightly together, and there are deep frown lines around his mouth.

Jason hugs himself, watching the flames. He's still not sure how he feels. But there's a question burning at the back of his throat, and he finally can't hold it back any longer. "Why?"

Red Hood seems to understand immediately. "Why didn't Batman kill Joker a long time ago? Because he's afraid. He's afraid that once he starts killing, he won't stop."

Jason feels small, and scared, and very young. "Will you?"

"Know when to stop? Yes. Kill Batman? No. I have to-- I have to show him how wrong he is, but I won't kill him." Red Hood gives the fire one final look and walks away.

Jason trails along behind him. "There was a fourth one, you know. Another Robin. Black Mask killed her."

"I know." Red Hood doesn't look back. "He'll die too, Casper. All in good time."


End file.
